You Can Go Back, Or You Can Go On
by Cordelia McGonagall
Summary: Ron's let his mates take him out for a stag night. They find a bit more than they expect.


**A/N: For the dear Loungers for their "Adults Only, Hard, Loud and Fast Challenge for Adults." 1500 on the button before the author's note. In case you skipped over the context clues in the challenge title, this is for adults, so please stop reading and peruse any one of my other K-T stories if you are not one of those just yet. As always, my sincere apologies to JKR who didn't ask for me to ruin her nice things.**

 **Oh, and the music here is either too loud to be discernible or else it has no lyrics to discern. But I was thinking of Obie Trice's "We All Die One Day" for the first half. I think Jimmy's spinning a chill mix with Air's "All I Need" or Farben's _Textstar._ Something like that.**

"This'll be it." Harry shoved Ron cheerfully through the doorway, its elaborate carvings dulled by layers of chipped, black paint peppered with stickers proclaiming bands Ron had never heard of. He rather hoped they were Muggle. Then he'd have an excuse.

Dean and George had demanded a proper stag do for him, but Ron had put them off, fearing someone, always lurking, with a camera. Truthfully, he felt too old, too settled to tick a box. Days after the war, he would have expected Harry to feel the same, but Harry, freed from the filthy scraps of Voldemort, floated through his days like Luna Lovegood on Felix Felicis.

He handed his new Ministry-issued Muggle ID to the doorman, whose head bent over it, his eyes obscured by large, dark sunglasses. He flicked the ID back to Ron without a word. Ron turned back to Harry, who was blinking in amusement at the heavy mass of music, weighty with sound. Ron's eyes hadn't adjusted to the darkness, and his nose was fighting the stale air layered in lager and piss.

"Just for a couple, yeah, Harry?" Ron leaned down and yelled at his friend, who had just spotted someone at the bar.

Harry jerked his chin up in acknowledgement. He leaned back to shout, "Whatever you say, Molly."

Ron sighed and regretted it; the breath absorbed a wake of aerosol cologne that made his eyes water. The pub was Muggle — the bar, appearing beyond the throng of bodies bobbing to the same pulse beating in his chest, revealed its clues: a tangle of extension cords around a lit Boddingtons sign, a strip of McCoy's packets, a stained placard with taxi service numbers.

They were tucked in near Diagon Alley, and that explained how George had known of it. Harry weaved deftly forward, and Ron needed his height to follow him; the music thrummed, disorienting and demanding his body to move in sync with those around him.

He wondered how one could spot Inferi.

A final surge, and they reached Dean and George, one pint down. Ron couldn't hear their greeting, but he frowned as they smirked and clinked glasses. _Merlin, that was disaster foreshadowed._ A beat drop washed Neville and Seamus in, and pints appeared and disappeared more rapidly than prudent, goading their voices to tackle the mountain of noise.

George bellowed at him, "To ickle Ronnikins, who managed to find the one decent woman in all of England who would..." Ron couldn't hear the last, but he glowered at Dean, who lifted his head back with a bark of laughter.

Neville was behind him and leaned past to shout at Harry, "Speech! From the best man! While you can still string words!" Resigned, Ron smiled grudgingly and took a long pull of his pint as he watched Harry look off into the crowd, composing thoughts.

Harry's eyes focused and his eyebrows raised.

"Mother. Fucker!" Harry shouted this, but only he and George seemed to hear.

George looked thoughtful. "A baffling, yet effective attention-getter, Harry! Continue!"

Seamus was stirring in his seat, attempting to get Dean's attention. Ron turned in time to see Cormac McLaggen, imposing even now, bearing down on him, wand drawn. Ron looked back; the bartender had stopped stocking glasses and watched with a frown. He turned back to Cormac and held up his hands. _Surely, not in a crowded Muggle pub. Surely not._

Harry took a step forward and smiled through the Auror protocol as he stealthily withdrew his wand, holding it below the bar.

"Assess, divert, disarm, control."

Cormac sneered at Ron, drew his wand arm back, and _WHAM!_ Cormac's dropped to the sticky floor under George, who was scowling as he examined his fingers. "Bless it, that'll bruise. Dean, could you put a wand to-"

"Dammit!" Ron turned to the bartender, ready to wipe memories, but he'd gone, replaced by the doorman, who lifted sunglasses and glamour charms to reveal Blaise Zabini.

"Fellows." Blaise pursed his lips. "Platform nine and three-quarters. Through the back."

Harry and Ron followed his gaze. Blaise jerked his head, nodding them on in annoyance. "Now. While your fellow Gryffindolt is napping. Tossers."

"Well," mused Harry, glancing at his battered wristwatch, "Almost eleven."

Ron squinted at him, shaking his head. "So?"

Harry shrugged. "Don't want to miss the Express." He slapped notes on the bar and folded himself into the crowd. Reaching the wall first, he turned to his mates, beaming, as he pointed to a brick that had been artfully tagged with green spray.

"We're Secret Keepers." He puffed his chest and pitched his voice in a screech. "Best do it at a bit of a run if you're nervous!" He casually leaned into the wall. There was nothing to do but follow.

Ron's ears rang, and the throb of music released his chest, a waft of mildly astringent eucalyptus obliviating the stench from before. Crystal chandeliers floated low over clusters of high-backed chesterfields and slipper chairs. None of their occupants looked up. Ron spun to the source of the ambient beat, a set of turntables and a bloke with headphones whose chin jutted as his finger spun a circle.

"Harry. It's Peakes."

"Yes," Blaise answered. "You lot are overrunning us as we save you from yourselves. Never let anyone get between a Gryffindor and attention."

Draco Malfoy stood behind Blaise, who sensed his presence and braced himself.

"Why." Draco's flat voice revealed nothing.

Blaise's shoulders slumped in a pout. "McLaggen showed up." Blaise flicked his wand at Ron. "Would have popped above the fold of _The Prophet_."

Draco thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and stared at the ceiling, his mouth a tight line.

Ron studied him. "Listen...mate." He heaved the last word out with effort. "We'll be going."

Draco shrugged. "You can. You may. You leave as members." His eyes rested on Harry. "Welcome to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. Your club now. A place to be in London, to be near Wizards, but away from cameras. You're here because I don't want every doe-eyed Potter fangirl in my face. Can't have any more Lovegoods getting in without help."

A figure sitting with her back to them popped a startling bridge pose, flipping her head upside-down to greet them. "Hullo! Did my coin not go off? Did you lose your Invisibility Cloak?"

Ron frowned. "We weren't looking for...hello. How did you get in here?"

Luna looked overwhelmed. A small smile played at Draco's mouth as he answered. "Followed me. Was worried I was lost. Said she'd wait for me on the other side. Sees bloody everything."

Luna slowly pushed up into a handstand to walk over the back of the couch, her sequined top sliding up to her breasts. She glided over to the group still standing awkwardly at the entrance.

"I like it here. Sometimes I come to get really high and snog. Am I upsetting you?" She turned to examine Dean as though he were composed of small dots of paint. He took a reflexive step back into Neville.

Harry took a step in. "Snog, you say?" Ron and George both looked at Harry curiously.

"Oooh, Weasleys really do look alike. Yes, snogging is very relaxing. I've not snogged Draco, though. Might be awkward. He does side-along me home if I'm too high. Chivalrous. Like that time he left me enough food and that nail in his cellar."

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose.

Harry took a step closer to Luna. "Have you snogged anyone tonight?"

"No," she breathed. "You?"

"Not since Ginny ditched me for her Beater, Astrid. Said she had to make sure."

Luna licked her lips and shoved Harry down on an empty couch to straddle his lap.

Neville cleared his throat. "Drinks?"

Draco sat, pulled a silver spoon from a tray, and poured green spirits over a cube of sugar.

"Absinthe. Trying to kill us?" Ron murmured.

"Glaringly inefficient, no. You're getting married?"

Ron nodded.

"Look," Draco clipped. "Gryffindors are ridiculously sentimental. We aren't pals now. Be careful. Discreet. Amiable. Isn't that your job? Come when you like. Toss in a Galleon - Peakes goes out of his way for imports and Daphne insists on small-batch Firewhisky. Don't tell Granger."

"We don't keep secrets, Malfoy."

"Of course not," he soothed. "Honesty is healthy. The first time I made Pansy come - quite a taxing feat, Special Services to the school were due - she moaned your name. The Owlery echoes. _Ron. Please, Ron._ I had my eyes closed, thinking of someone else entirely. Let's leave her out if it, if you please."

Ron blanched. "What? No."

"Exactly. No, Weasley. Don't tell. Congratulations to you both." Draco raised his glass and smiled.

"Cheers." Ron drained his in a swallow.


End file.
